


Cut Too Close and Dug Too Deep

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bullying, Gen, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another town, another school, and for Sam, Willcox, Arizona sucks. There's something that the people there just don't like about him, and they throw the usual sticks and stones. But when it's just him and Dean, Sam doesn't have to worry about what the rest of the world thinks, or about how right they might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut Too Close and Dug Too Deep

"You have got to be shitting me."

"What?" Sam knew he sounded petulant but couldn't bring himself to care.

Dean eyed the clock that was tilted on the wall above the kitchen sink before looking at Sam again. "You're home already. And it's not even one o'clock."

"And?" 

Dean huffed a laugh. "And you're Sam fucking Winchester. And you haven't missed a day of school if you could help it since... Since ever."

"Whatever, Dean. That's a lie."

But even though it was pretty clear that Sam was bullshitting, Dean apparently gave up on calling Sam's bluff, because he went back to digging into his mac and cheese after flipping the page of his Auto Trader magazine. That was fine by Sam, though. He'd had a bad morning and didn't feel like being grilled. 

After leaving school early, he'd walked the three and a half miles back to the old, so-called furnished house they'd been renting for the last month and half, and that was that. Dean didn't need to know why.

 

\---

 

The middle of May in the Southwest was perfect. It was warm and sunny, but it wasn't too much. 

Sam was sprawled out with a book open in front of him on the trampoline, and it was quiet except for the wind. When they'd first gotten to the dilapidated farm house and a huge round trampoline stood somewhere between the back porch and the shed, with weeds grown up all around and under it and only one small tear in the black mesh, Dean had laughed and laughed.

Sam wasn't laughing at all, because it was an awesome place to stretch out, complete with shade from the giant aspen it stood beside. Shade was a valuable commodity in Arizona.

Dean didn't laugh anymore, either, because when he wasn't trying to bounce Sam off of it into next week, he was using it to put into practice his grand idea. Sparring on a trampoline. At first, Sam had thought it was ridiculous, but after the third time Dean lost his footing, Sam decided he was totally down with the new element added to their usual routine, and he no longer grumbled. Even though Dean pretty much still won all the time anyway.

"Up and at'em, Sammy," Dean called as the back door screeched open and then whacked closed. Sam rolled onto his back, dogearing his page and tossing the book into the grass. He closed his eyes and listened for Dean, steady feet shir-shirring through grass, then a hand strong on the sidebar, then a small _oomph_ as Dean hauled himself up. Sam was ready for it when Dean walk-bounced over and threw a leg over him. He was basically straddling Sam, each of his feet just inches from either of Sam's thighs. 

Sam opened his eyes to see Dean hovering over him, offering an arm up. Sam grabbed Dean's hand and stood, but didn't let his guard down. Dean occasionally attacked after first buttering him up. So when Dean's leg came out to hook Sam's knee, Sam stood firm-- firm as could be expected on a giant trampoline-- and he used Dean's distraction against him. A quick right hook into Dean's gut, and Dean stumbled back, ending up just short of the springs. 

They circled, making use of the slippery mesh to shimmy around and around, sock-footed sashays back and forth, each waiting the other out. 

"How's your book, Sammy?" Dean asked, going for distraction. "Did you get it from Ryan?" 

"Yeah, actually," Sam said, and he saw a tiny flinch in Dean's jaw, the perfect opening for him to spring forward and push Dean back bodily. 

They'd sparred out here a few times already, and though they weren't yet equally matched, Sam's footwork was better than Dean's. Sam was taller, now, and his feet were bigger, steadier. Dean slid and Sam hooked an arm around Dean's middle, yanked him hard, and flipped him down on his front. 

Dean still had weight on him, wasn't nearly as lanky as Sam, but Sam had the upper hand, with his knee pushing down hard into Dean's back and his forearm pressed tight across his neck. 

"Fuck, Sam," Dean wheezed, and Sam must've gotten him better than he'd thought, because Dean sounded as though he'd lost a little wind. He squirmed, trying to buck Sam off, but Sam held tight.

"Say it," Sam said. He worked himself over Dean, moved his knee to the side and sat right down, his entire weight centered on Dean's back, pinning him helplessly. "Say uncle, Dean."

"Not gonna happen, pipsqueak."

"Who's the pipsqueak now?" Sam asked, and moved his arm down from Dean's neck to grab his wrist, taking away his ability to swat backwards at Sam's face. Sam steadied himself as Dean writhed below him, ground himself down harder so that Dean had no give. "I got all day."

He felt Dean go limp beneath him, but waited a few more moments just to drive the point home.

Sam wasn't used to winning their sparring matches, and he really, really liked it. 

 

\---

 

School was the same and it was different.

There was something about Sam that just seemed to ping people the wrong way in this town. Maybe it was the Metallica t-shirt of Dean's he'd worn the first day, faded to an orange-gray and with small holes around the neck from wear. Maybe it was the shit-eating smile he'd had on his face. He couldn't have helped that, though-- Dean had just dropped him off out front and promised him Taco Bell and a movie at the drive-in if he didn't hit anyone in the face.

Whatever it was, people just didn't seem to like him. Not most people, anyway.

"Sam!"

He turned from his locker to Ryan, the one person who didn't seem to mind talking to him in a form other than insults. "Hey," Sam said, and he smiled, because Ryan was good people, and Sam was learning more and more that good people were hard to come by. 

Ryan fumbled with his lock and asked, "So did you finish Brave New World? It's my favorite. Like, of all time."

Sam nodded, and then shook his head, sweeping his hair out of his eyes. "Liking it so far. Didn't get a chance to finish yet, because my brother--"

"That's cool, man," Ryan said, then he reached out and gripped a hand to Sam's arm, smiled sheepishly before pulling away. "Take your time."

The school bell rang, but it sounded far away, like it was under water or something, because all Sam could focus on was where the warmth of Ryan's fingers had sank through flannel. He just looked at Ryan, all dry in the mouth, and jerked his head down the hall. “Gotta get to class,” he said. 

"For sure. I'll see you later." Ryan stared back but smiled at Sam, good-naturedly, all white teeth and sure posture. 

"Yeah," Sam said. "See you."

 

\---

 

"Come on, Sam! Faster!" A beat and then Dean whistled, and Sam still had a whole fifteen yards to run.

Whenever Dad was out of town, drill practice was doubled. Dean felt the need to have all sorts of things to report when Dad got back, and it could never just be what _he_ had accomplished, it had to be what he'd taught Sam, how he'd improved Sam's technique.

Today was suicide sprints. Dean had turned their backyard into a makeshift gym, created ten and twenty and thirty yard length tracks marked out with branches stuck in the ground. His goal was to shave two seconds off Sam's best. 

Dean rolled off the trampoline and said, "All right, all right. You take a break. I'll run it."

Sam took the stopwatch Dean passed him and muttered, "How thoughtful."

"Quit bitching, Sammy, or you're doing five reps in a row next."

Sam flopped down onto the grass and hit reset on the timer. "Ready?"

"Born ready," Dean said, and Sam laughed.

"All right. One, two," Sam counted down, and as his finger hit the start button, he said, "Three." 

And Dean was off. 

He was fast. Not that Sam wasn't, but Dean's speed seemed unreal. As he turned on his heel, away from Sam, Sam watched the muscles in Dean's calves, in his back. Sam had grown a lot over the past couple of years, had reached what would probably be his full height, but he was still gangly, still felt awkward in his skin. Dean, though, Dean was the complete opposite of awkward. 

One last leg of his suicides, and Dean was drenched, had given his all, like he always did. Sam checked the clock-- definitely better than his own time-- and set his finger to call it. 

Dean came hurtling past Sam where he sat on the grass, finished, and went yards past as he slowed to a jog before circling back. Sam handed Dean the bottle of water when he reached out with grabby hands. He took a huge gulp, and another, then asked, "So, what was my time?"

Dean was blocking the sun where he was standing over Sam, and Sam strained to see his eyes, to make out his expression. He was silhouetted, though, and Sam couldn't see whether Dean was looking at him with curiosity or cockiness, could only see the way his throat worked as he chugged the water down.

Dean finally wiped the back of his forearm across his mouth. "Earth to Sam?" 

"Yeah," Sam said, but when he looked down at the stopwatch in his hand, the milliseconds were still ticking away. 

 

\---

 

Dean bussed tables three nights a week at the town's one bar and grill. His white apron was hilarious. Actually, neither of them liked it-- it was better when Dean worked during the day, stayed busy while Sam was at school-- but he'd tried the mechanic's, even tried at the library, and, left without options, he took what he could.

Sam usually enjoyed the alone time at the house, for the most part, but today he'd felt off, since he stepped into home room and he'd felt eyes on him. He'd known that the whisperings were about him. It wasn't Greg this time, but he had all of his stupid fucking followers harassing Sam. 

Stupid fucking Greg, motherfucking captain of the football team and therefore the second coming. Needless to say, Sam felt less than comfortable at school. 

So instead of hiking back to the house after school, he walked the block and a half to Tony's. From his seat in one of the booths near the back of the place, where he was trying not to bother the waitress with his bottomless Coke refills, he had a good view of the place. His calc book was spread out in front of him on the red-checked tabletop, and he was halfheartedly poking at his calculator with the eraser end of his pencil.

It was hilarious, watching Dean work, here. He was used to Dean with a grease-covered rag hanging out of his back pocket, bent over the open hood of a car, not with a towel over his arm and a dish tub in his hands. He was used to seeing Dean ham it up with anything with a pair of tits and a set of legs, too, and that was just the same here in Willcox. So it was no surprise that Dean had the tub propped up against the bar, and that he was taking his sweet time clearing away the dishes that a ridiculously gorgeous blonde was finished with. 

Sam looked back down at his book, trying to focus-- the integral of _f_ summed with that of _x_ \-- but when the girl's laugh filled the entire diner, he couldn't help but look up at Dean again, couldn't help but wonder what show he was putting on this time. Dean's usual sly smile was eating up his face, and Sam bet the girl couldn't see much more than that, like the way his freckles didn't just pepper his cheeks but swept across all the way to the tips of his ears, or how when he smiled that wide the skin by his eyes crinkled tight. 

Tony's was an old-fashioned kind of place, so when people walked in, the little bell on the door caught Sam's attention. It was Ryan, and what looked like his parents and his little sister, and as soon as he saw Sam, Ryan's face broke out into a grin. 

Sam waved but dropped his hand immediately, ears going hot, because why was he such a dork? But Ryan just laughed as he walked over and slid into the seat across from him. "So, how's the calculus treating you?"

Before Sam could answer, though, Dean was at his elbow. "Oh, you know Sam, he's just eating up the calculus," he said. Dean slid into the booth next to Sam, shoving him over with his hip and rucking his hand up in Sam's hair. Sam swatted him away and ran his hands over his head, smoothing his hair back down.

Dean smiled all big, his smile wider than before, more real, and Sam almost got caught up in it. "Come on, Sam, just leave it. Love it when you've got that tousled look. And hey, I'm just saying, you plus textbook? Equals happy couple." Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs but Dean moved with it. "So, Sammy," he continued, "Where'd your manners go? Introduce me to your friend." 

Sam felt his face flush, again, looking across the table at Ryan. He had no idea what his problem was. Ryan _was_ just a friend, Christ. "Yeah," he said. "Ryan, this is Dean. Dean, Ryan." 

Dean shoved his hand across the table at Ryan, who just blinked until Dean cleared his throat. Not awkward at all.

"So how do you guys know each other, hmm? School? The gym?" 

Sam swore he saw Dean _wink_ at Ryan, and that was fucking enough. "Jesus, Dean, _school_. Our lockers are next to each other."

"Right, right," Dean said. 

Sam elbowed Dean again, and before Dean could get him back, he saw Blondie standing and grabbing her purse. "Hey, Dean, your girlfriend is leaving. Don't you want to say goodbye?"

"Girlfriend, schmirlfriend," Dean said. Then, "And it looks like your family's ordering their meals, Ryan. Not hungry?"

"Uhhh," Ryan said.

This was ridiculous. Sam didn't know what Dean's problem was or why he was acting so bizarre, but there was no way he could get any work done here anymore anyway, and he had some serious catching up to do, since he wasn't able to process any actual calculus while he was actually in class. "You know what? I think I'm gonna head out."

"Aw, Sam, but we were just getting to hang out, the three of us!" Dean said, because apparently he forgot that he was at _work_. 

Sam tucked his notebook into his textbook and pushed Dean out of the bench seat as he shoved all his stuff into his bag. He chugged the rest of his Coke before he said, "Sorry, Ry. See you tomorrow?"

Ryan just stayed at the table, staring as Sam left with a wave, Dean trailing behind. Dean hit him in the back of the shoulder so hard he stumbled forward, and as he went through the door, Dean called after him, "And don't forget to make sure my dinner's warm, bitch!" 

 

\---

 

There was nowhere Sam felt more comfortable than PE. Well, he was damn fucking comfortable with a pencil and a calculator in math, and a scalpel and some forceps in bio, actually, but PE, well, he'd been trained for it. Especially when it came to things like today, laps followed by dodgeball. 

They were down to two players on their team, and they were outmatched and out _playered_ , as the three guys remaining were all members of the football team. Sam wasn't worried. The ball came whooshing toward him, and before his teammate could shout his name, he had it grasped tightly in one hand. 

They didn't do a ton of training involving throwing-- Dad was definitely a gun-man himself, and Dean, of course, followed suit-- but Sam had taken naturally to it. Whenever they threw shit at targets, hay bails or pieces of plywood, Dad had actually been impressed. He wasn't sure why, but Sam could just _throw_. 

It was a very useful skill during dodgeball.

He raised his arm and threw. No need to focus, no need to exert too much effort. The key was effortlessness. 

The result was immediate. Greg took it right to his hip, only inches from Sam's aim, and fell backwards into the wall from the impact.

"Not fucking fair!" Greg yelped.

"Hey! Language!" Three shrill chirp-chirps of the whistle and Coach Wagner yelled, "Greg! That's it, strike two. You watch your mouth or I'll be seeing you in detention at 3:30 sharp. Now get off the court."

Sam didn't smirk, and he didn't say a fucking thing, he didn't have to, but when Greg sidled off of the court and towards the locker room, Sam couldn't help but overhear, "Fucking queer. Just wait till we're not on the court."

He didn't flinch.

 

\---

 

A slam of the screen door in the early-summer, desert wind, and Sam switched from his left to right arm, pillowing his head as he stared up at the blue, blue sky from the comfort of the trampoline. "Sammy?"

Sam tilted his head up, blinking from the clarity caused by no longer staring into the sun, and he made out Dean yanking off his boots, setting them and his apron down on the picnic table just a couple feet from the trampoline. Dean jumped up, and Sam steadied himself with a palm to the mat.

"Hey," Dean said as he bounced down next to Sam. 

Sam rolled onto his back and looked up again. "Hey," he replied. 

Minutes rolled by. Sam didn't feel like talking and loved that he and Dean could just sit like this in silence. The only other thing he could think to want right then was ice cream, maybe some licorice.

Ten minutes ticked by, just the whisper of a breeze through the trees and maybe a couple of cars driving past the house, when Dean said, "So what's eating you, Sam?"

"Hmph," Sam said.

Dean rolled from his back to his side, and, eyes closed, Sam felt something land on his stomach, but it wasn't Dean's hand. He reached down and felt a Tootsie Pop, looked down and saw cherry, his favorite. 

Sam smiled, and Dean jumped up, then jumped backwards, hard, and the lollipop flew out of Sam's hand. He scrambled for it as Dean kept jumping, harder and higher, which is why he only heard Dean say, "Hey, Sammy, watch," followed almost immediately by Dean yelling, "Fucking _Christ_!"

Dean was halfway onto the ground, arm stuck between the springs, legs buckling because of the awkward position. "Dean!"

Sam jumped down, right in Dean's space, and helped Dean down. When he pulled Dean's hand away from his bicep, there was a good amount of blood, enough that Sam had to take a deep breath and tell himself not to panic. Dean was grimacing, but he said, "Not a big deal, Sam." 

"Not a big deal? What the hell, Dean? What were you even trying to do?" Sam had Dean by both arms, trying to push him toward the house. Dean said, "Ughh," and Sam said, "You know what? It doesn't matter." He kept urging Dean forward and continued, "Come on, move it. Get in the house, we've gotta clean you up."

"Nah, Sammy. You go on without me. I'm just gonna chill out here on the porch." Dean collapsed on the bench at the top of the stairs.

"No way," Sam said. He pulled Dean's hand away from the gash, to see exactly what they were working with, and said, "Okay, okay. Just, just stay here."

Dean groaned and laid down, kicking his feet out but otherwise curling in on himself.

Back with an armful of hand towels and the med kit, pills, and a bowl of water, Sam sat in the space Dean's prone body left on the bench. "Here," he said. He opened the pill bottle and held two Vicodin up to Dean's mouth, half of all they had left. "Swallow." 

The cut was bleeding too much, though, so there was no waiting for those to kick in. Sam wished they could wait because he wasn't nearly as practiced in this as Dean was. He didn't have the experience that Dean did, who'd been sewing Dad up since he was old enough to ride a bike, had learned how to stitch gashes together _before_ he'd learned to ride a bike. 

But Sam could do this. He had to. 

His hands were shaking, just a slight tremor, but it felt magnified as he finally got the thread through the needle's eye. He could feel it even as he replaced the towel with a damp one and then patted Dean's skin dry, as he used one hand to pinch the skin closed. "Just hold on, Dean. Don't move."

Dean grabbed onto Sam's thigh, hard, as Sam pierced in, pierced out, and again. He groaned through the pain, fingers digging into Sam's thigh.

"Just one more, Dean. Hold on," Sam said, and then he closed it off, cut the thread. 

He held Dean's forearm, tipped him forward to get a closer look as he doused the stitched gash with alcohol and blew over it to speed the dry. 

Dean squeezed Sam's thigh, gentler. "No hospitals, Sammy," he said. "Just you." 

The meds must have been kicking in, Sam thought. "Yeah, Dean," Sam said. "Just me."

 

\---

 

Sam noticed a group of kids huddled around his locker just after third period on Monday. He elbowed past with a, "'Scuse me," but then stopped still. 

Faggot. Across the front of his locker, spray painted yellow across the faded red paint, because apparently harassing Sam with a Sharpie just wasn't enough. 

He wasn't angry; he wasn't even surprised. But when the snickering got louder, he turned and shouted, "Would you all just fuck off?" It wasn't until he looked around at everyone just standing there laughing that he felt his face heat. 

Sam could take a lot of shit from people. He didn't get embarrassed easily. He was used to being the new kid, the weird kid, but this? This was bullshit. And there was no way that they could _know_ , but he felt so exposed. It dug too deep, too close.

A hand dropped on his shoulder. Sam knew instantly who it was. "Hey, man," Ryan said, almost a whisper. "Let's get out of here."

Sam shrugged him off. He wasn't going to be there much longer, anyway, so people could laugh; he didn't give a shit. Dad had already let them stay a month and a half, they'd be long gone soon enough. "Thanks, Ry," he said, and stepped forward, throwing his bag down on the ground. 

He opened the locker and grabbed one book after another, bending down to stuff them into his bag. He grabbed the apple and banana from the top shelf, too, putting one in each of his pockets. When he threw his bag back over his shoulder and turned to leave, pushing his way through the small crowd that had gathered, Ryan was right there beside him. "Hey," Sam said, managing a half-smile. "Thanks. For everything. But I, uh, I just gotta be alone right now." 

A couple of the guys still by Sam's locker _Awwww_ ed, and he didn't turn to acknowledge it, but Ryan's neck and ears pinked. He nodded. "Yeah, Sam. It's cool."

Sam pretended he didn't notice how Ryan couldn't meet his eyes. Sam kept his head up and eyes forward, focused on the door, as he walked down the main hall and out of the school.

 

\---

 

When Sam came up the driveway, Dean looked up from where he was seated on the front steps, gingerly taking apart his Colt 1911 and greasing down each piece. "That's it, Sam," he said, but Sam walked right past, kicking his shoes off and throwing his bag down as soon as he entered the house. 

Dean followed him in. "Sammy! You can't keep cutting school!"

Sam didn't respond, because there was nothing to say. Instead, he grabbed two slices of bread and put sandwich stuff on the counter: mayonnaise, lettuce, a tomato, and the fried chicken that Dean had made last night. He hadn't even finished slathering one piece of bread with mayo before Dean was there, right up in his space. 

Sam shoved him. "Fuck off, Dean."

But Dean just got closer, settling a hand on Sam's shoulder and kneading. Sam turned, wildly, flinging Dean off of him. "Don't you get that I just need some goddamn space every once in a while?"

Sam saw an obvious flicker in Dean's eyes, but it was just that, a flicker, and then Dean was smiling. "Yeah, Sam, okay." He backed away and pulled a chair out from the table, swung it around and sat with his legs spread wide. "You wanna talk about what's bothering you though? Maybe?"

"Since when do you want to talk, Dean?"

"Since I know you're pissed about something."

Sam slumped back against the countertop, sandwich forgotten. He crossed his arms over his chest. Dean never wanted to talk, not about anything, but a part of Sam was so fed up that he just had to get it out there, so, "I'm not pissed."

Dean _tsk_ ed, and Sam finally looked him in the eye. "I'm _not_ ," Sam said. "I'm just, I'm going out of my mind here, Dean. I feel like I can't even breathe at that school anymore. All of the kids, they're all-- Well, they've been harassing me for, like--"

Dean jumped out of his chair. "Woah, wait. Harassing you?"

Sam didn't like admitting that any of it had gotten to him, but it had. "It's not actually a big deal, I swear."

"Sam." There was a no-nonsense, almost dangerous edge to Dean's voice that made Sam go warm.

"Just, it's mainly been Greg, and all hi--" Sam trailed off, hesitating.

"All his what, Sam?"

Sam clenched his fists, his heart starting to thrum faster just thinking about it. "Just. It's what you'd expect, queer and fag, namecalling bullshit. And today, on my locker--"

"No fucking way," Dean said. Sam could see the heat rising up Dean's neck, the anger coloring his skin and tightening his shoulders. "If I'd've known, I'd. Fuck, Sam." He looked like he wanted to find something to hit.

"Nothing you could've done, Dean. Fuck it, anyway. It's over. I'm not going back."

Dean stepped in closer to Sam, his hand reaching out briefly before dropping to his side in a fist. "You really want to leave? Near the end of the semester?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"All right." Dean clapped his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let's pack up."

 

\---

 

They hadn't been in Willcox long, not long enough to get real settled at least, so it wasn't difficult to get everything together. Place was furnished, too, and it wasn't like they had to wrap up plates.

Sam had everything in his room done within a half hour, dirty clothes in a trash bag and clean ones folded up and stuffed in his duffel. When he grabbed his stuff from the bathroom, he noticed that Dean's toothbrush and hair gel were still in the medicine cabinet, so he crossed the hall to Dean's room. "What the--" Sam muttered. Dean hadn't even started packing.

Dean's bag was peaking out from under his unmade bed. Sam bent to grab it, but straightened when he heard the front door swing open.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam said when he heard Dean coming down the hall. "Where have you--" The blood caked under Dean's nose, on his lip was enough to cut Sam off. He dropped his own bag in the middle of the hall and rushed to Dean. "What happened?"

Dean shrugged. "Oh, you know, just picking up my last check." He waved it in the air and laughed, but it was dark, angry.

"Shut up," Sam said.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What? Really, just went down to Tony's. Wasn't my fault Greg and his fucking posse were there. Wasn't my fault the manager didn't have time to finish writing the check before I got that fucker down and kicked the shi--"

Dean had stepped in closer, and Sam wanted to hit him. "Dean!"

Dean laughed the same laugh, but when one hand wiped at the blood and the other came to rest on Sam's arm, his eyes lit up. "That guy isn't going to be bothering you anymore."

Sam frowned at him, but Dean gave him a look and Sam shook his head. Dean was beautiful when he got that look, when his eyes shone at Sam, showing everything he felt. Sam had to look away, looked down at his bag. "Let's finish packing," he said.

 

\---

 

They were used to driving, used to miles of asphalt being eaten up by the Impala's tires, with even more miles ahead, but something was different this time. This time, they took off in the middle of the day, they weren't headed towards something, some beastie or some hunt, but _away_.

Sam wasn't really a fan of running away. Something about today, though, just him and Dean and the open road, had Sam relaxing back, passenger side, the desert drying out his lungs and Dean singing along quietly to one of Dad's tapes. Sam spaced out and watched the road.

Hours, they'd been on the road, and they'd cut near across the state. It was fucking dark out, out in the middle of the Arizona desert. The darkness made it feel later than it was, or maybe it was just the sense of leaving that fucking town behind. It was like they'd never been there at all, it was just them and the landscape, freedom. Whatever it was, Sam was tired, and he could tell that Dean was even worse off than him, his hands gripping too tight around the wheel, his window rolled all the way down to let in the cool. 

"Dean," Sam said. 

"Yeah?" 

"Let's stop," he said, but his voice tilted up into a question, like he wouldn't actually tell Dean what to do.

"Nah," Dean said. "Let's keep going. Haven't seen a motel in ages and we're only about an hour and a half out of Flagstafff."

Sam rolled his window down, too, breathed out deep, felt like he was done worrying for the first time in what felt like years. 

Near a half hour later, he was jostled out of his half-sleep by the pop-pop-pop of the tires crossing the center line markers. "Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, Sammy," Dean said, and two minutes later they were pulling off of the desolate highway, no lights in sight. It wasn't like they weren't familiar with roughing it. 

Dean coasted to a stop and parked them in this middle of nowhere night, with an expanse of hard, red rock and sand stretching out in all directions, the rolling hills and cliffs of the Sierra Anchas off in the distance. "Look good?" he asked. 

"Perfect," Sam said. 

He met Dean at the trunk, grabbed the few logs they kept back there just in case of emergency as Dean grabbed the blanket they'd had for years, the name of the motel and even the town they'd snagged it from long forgotten. 

"Hey," Dean said. Under the near-full moon, Sam could see a hint of Dean's smile. "Let's trade." 

Sam passed the wood to Dean and grabbed the blanket, spread it out, and sat down to lean against the Impala.

Dean was no boy scout, but they'd been raised like survivalists, and he had a fire going strong and bright quickly, no time for Sam to fall back into his doze. When Dean was done, he sat down and scooted closer, sat right next to Sam, warmth bleeding through his leather. "Sammy," he said, and he pulled his arm up and around, grabbed Sam's shoulder and nudged him down. "You can pass out again." 

Sam kicked off his shoes, suddenly overcome with the need to sleep, to get comfortable, head on Dean's lap setting muscle memory into motion. It wasn't like it was cold outside, but Sam was the perfect level of warm, here, with Dean.

At the same time that Dean threw a stick into the fire, he sighed a little content noise and settled a hand on Sam's head. He weaved his fingers through Sam's hair, and it felt so good. Sam never minded it when Dean did that; minded when he rucked it up just to mess with him, minded when he gave him shit about how long it was. He knew that Dean loved it, actually, knew it just as bone deep as he knew that Dean loved him. 

"So gorgeous," Dean mumbled, touching a finger to the shell of Sam's ear, and Sam looked up at the stars, too, because they were damn beautiful out here.

Sam was on the verge of sleep, in that near-unconscious, super-lucid space, and his heart hurt-- not like it did earlier, not like it did last week or last month, but in a good way. He knew who he was, he knew who he loved, and it was good. He yawned and said, "They were right, Dean."

"I know, Sammy," Dean said. He ran his hand through Sam's hair again, slowly winding one curl around his finger and then another.

Sam snuggled down tighter, closed his eyes to the flickering flames, and brought his hand up to rest under his chin, on Dean's thigh. The warmth of Dean's body radiated into his palm, and he squeezed. Dean _hmm_ ed and leaned forward, pressed his lips to Sam's forehead, softly. Sam yawned again. 

Things were different here, away from the world, but they also weren't, because Sam and Dean were still the same. They always would be. Pain and injury were just part of the game. And Sam was certain that they were going to be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> written for [SPN Reverse Bang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com) 2012


End file.
